


Cradle Song

by SugarsweetRomantic



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: And Joe and Cleo are beautiful candidates, Character Study, Cleo as the server's grumbling mom, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Idiots in Love, Introspection, It's not about that though, Jrumbot needs foster parents, Love Languages, Lullabies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28635999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarsweetRomantic/pseuds/SugarsweetRomantic
Summary: As a zombie, Cleo doesn'tneedsleep. That doesn't mean she doesn't get exhausted.
Relationships: Joe Hills/ZombieCleo
Comments: 15
Kudos: 29





	Cradle Song

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: mentions of a child having nightmares

Despite having adjusted to life among the Hermits, Cleo is still very much a zombie. Sure, she’s learnt to suppress her bloodlust, and she can withstand a few hours in the sun as long as she’s wearing SPF 100 sunblock, but she still has some of her zombie characteristics. She’s not a fan of doors. Villagers annoy her to no end. Heads are fun to play with. And though she _can_ sleep at night if she really has to, she’s a chronic insomniac. 

Zombies don’t need sleep. Not like humans do, anyway. It’s nice to rest her tired limbs in a bed every now and again, and it’s nice to give her brain some rest, but she doesn’t need the physical act of sleeping to survive. In a sense, she should pair up with Bdubs or Wels, she thinks to herself. 

It doesn’t make her much of a romantic partner. She gets fidgety when spending long amounts of time in bed; wants to get up and roam around. Whine at the sky for a bit. Punch a golem, just to see what happens.

(It hurts, a lot, she knows that much, and the sad look on Stress’ face when she catches Cleo in the act hurts even more. Enough to never do it again.)

Cleo understands her fellow zombie brethren. She doesn't always follow their brainless motives, but she does _get_ it. The hunger can be all-consuming. It does get worse at night. She's locked herself in once before, when the server had glitched into permanent nighttime for a week. Both she and Doc had sought refuge in the End, a dimension so unlike the Overworld that had allowed them to hold on to their human traits with desperation. 

It helps when she has something to do at night. It’s not always her own base and projects that keep her busy, though. She flies around the server, fixing the lighting in Scar’s unintentional mob farms or sending Stress’ and Impulse’s escaped villagers back to their homes. She soothes Jrumbot after he’s had a nightmare and promises not to tell his dads, and nudges sleepwalking Hermits back to their beds and respective partners. She stops by Joe’s refuge and refills the dog feed if he’s been too wrapped up in his writing to remember. She doesn’t mind, though she’ll always deny doing any of her good deeds. She’s a big bad zombie, after all.

Ren’s her company, some days, when the moon is full. Having been turned as a young child means his wolf form is a pup, _forever_ . They don’t call him Ren _Dog_ for nothing. RenWolf would just feel wrong. He howls at the skies and she throws an emerald for him to chase and bring back to her. She makes sure he doesn’t accidentally run thousands of blocks from spawn while chasing a parrot or a bunny. Or, well, she makes sure he doesn’t do so without ten obsidian and a flint and steel in his inventory. She’s a zombie, not a marathon runner. The one thing she asks in return? They never speak about any of it, not even amongst themselves. It’s fine; Ren doesn’t like turning into an excited puppy all that much either. 

Tonight, it’s a new moon. The server is calm, with most of its magically-inclined inhabitants no longer under the spell of the ever-changing celestial body. The Watchers have been calm as well, apparently being more preoccupied with wars and politics on different servers. The Hermits prefer the undisturbed life anyway, and the Watchers know that they are very capable of keeping the peace themselves. 

So, Cleo finds herself flying through the shopping district, on her way to Jrumbot. She knows the little bot well now; knows that he doesn’t like it when big buildings rise next to him. Stress’ Frankenstein gave the poor thing nightmares for weeks; she’s glad it’s gone now, even though Stress meant well. If only Cleo could give him a stuffie or a nightlight to lessen his fear, but nothing so far has worked. 

There’s a flickering light near Jrumbot when she lands. Strange, maybe someone left a torch somewhere?

_“Lullaby and goodnight, with roses bedtight. With lilies o’er spread is baby’s wee bed. Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed. Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed.”_

Someone is...singing? Cleo carefully creeps closer, not wanting to disturb the scene.

_“Lullaby and goodnight, thy fathers’ delight. Bright angels beside my darling abide. They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on their chest. They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on their chest.”_

There’s only one person on the server who would ever sing Brahms. Shaking her head, Cleo smiles and approaches the Hermit currently singing Jrumbot to sleep.

“Hey Joe,” she whispers. Joe’s head spins, smiling at her.

“Howdy Cleo,” he responds with a similar volume. “What’cha doing here at this hour?”

“Needed some terracotta,” she lies.

“Ah, yes, Jrumbot sells the best terracotta,” Joe replies. Cleo swats his arm. Jrumbot blinks sleepily at the both of them, and Cleo strokes his hand. 

“Hi little one; you can go to sleep,” she soothes. She can _feel_ Joe’s smirk burning into the back of her head, but it’s fine. Nodding, Jrumbot closes his eyes, and both Hermits watch as his standby-light turns on. 

“Trouble sleeping tonight?” Joe asks quietly as they tiptoe away from the sleeping baby.

“Trouble sleeping every night.” It’s the truth; she has no reason to keep it from him. Joe knows her through and through anyway; this is just courtesy on his side, allowing her to admit it to him without him needing to deduce it for her. Joe reaches for her hand, and Cleo begins to realise just how _exhausted_ she is. 

“Come to bed,” Joe murmurs. He leans in to hold her, but waits. For her consent, Cleo realises. Turning towards him and into his embrace, she nods against his chest. “I still have some sleeping potions at the vineyard,” he tells her.

“M’zoo needs my attention,” Cleo protests weakly.

“Is it okay if I ask False or Stress to feed the animals in the morning, then?” Joe asks. He’s got his communicator out, but he is, once again, waiting for her. Cleo wants to object. She nods.

They fly to the vineyard in comfortable silence. She takes the potion, and he averts his eyes while she undresses. Cleo offers a weak chuckle at the offer of modesty. She’s a zombie; half of her body is on display at all times anyway, including her organs. Modesty isn’t natural to her anymore -- in every sense of the word. Still, she accepts the offered cotton tee and slips it over her body, the bright blue contrasting with the dullish green of her skin. The potion hurts her throat, but it subsides quickly, replaced by a heavy weight in her limbs. 

“Goodnight, Cleo,” Joe whispers with a sense of reverence, as the magic begins to work on her undead remains, clouding her brain.

Her three-word response comes out mumbled and slurred.

Joe smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! With everything going on in the world, I felt like some fluff was in order, and I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> And, for anyone who doesn't know it by name, Brahms' lullaby [can be found here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t894eGoymio).


End file.
